The Broken Wall, The Burning Roof and Tower
by danger.angel
Summary: Angelina loses her voice. (AU) (Complete)
1. Change In the House of Flies

**CHANGE/ IN THE HOUSE OF FLIES**

Being a Gryffindor was supposed to be about victories, the bright and the bold, and shouting what had to be said. But now she knew that was not all there was to her. Being her meant losses, dark shadows, and things that could not be said.

Sitting on the floor of the Astronomy Tower, Angelina pulled her arms around her, feeling a sudden chill. The door had just opened. She tried to pull her legs to her chest but the pain made her stop.

Without looking up she wondered if He'd come back. A glance at the shoes in front of her calmed her slightly, only slightly.

**----->-----**

He'd come to the tower to scare off whichever couple had come to steal a few kisses or to do more. For him, the best part of being a prefect was that he had the power to interrupt the pleasure of others, especially those who were not of his house. Every day he lived through their scorn and hatred and every night he repaid them for it.

He hadn't expected her to be there, looking so small and fragile. Immediately, he was reminded of the glass ornament his father had thrown against the wall, the object barely missing his mother's head. It had shattered into a million pieces, which cut into his fingers when he tried to pick them up.

It was strange to him that she wasn't making a sound. Her gaze was on the floor and her braids covered her face. He kneeled down and tried to push them behind her ear, but she flinched away.

And now he noticed the smell. It was familiar to him. The smell of violence and unshed tears. He looked down and noticed the blood on her thighs and legs. Bile rose to his throat.

_Not her_, he thought frantically. He couldn't come up with any reasoning behind his thought, but it was there.

He wanted to ask who did this to her, but he couldn't find the words. Instead he lifted her gently and started for the infirmary.

* * *

**Notes**

The title of the story is a verse taken from W.B. Yeat's "Leda and the Swan."

The title of this chapter is taken from Deftones' "Change (In the House of Flies)" from their album_ White Pony_.


	2. Silver and Cold

**SILVER AND COLD**

There were more than a dozen unopened letters stacked on Angelina's desk. Beside them was an issue of _The_ _Daily Prophet_. The headline read: "Student Raped At Hogwarts". Angelina couldn't bring herself to read the article, but neither could she bring herself to throw away the paper.

Her mother had told her that she wasn't named in the article, but Angelina knew that for the time being she was infamous. Every witch and wizard knew her name or some distortion of it. Secrets like this had a way of getting out.

Supposedly, she was the first student who'd been raped at Hogwarts in twenty years. Angelina wasn't stupid enough to believe that. There were others. Those who'd picked themselves up afterwards, walked back to their dorms, and tried to pretend as if they'd left that girl they'd been for those horrible minutes behind. She'd known them, kept silent with them. If she hadn't stayed in the Tower so long she would've been one of them.

She cursed and thanked Montague for that.

The infirmary had never been a traumatic place for her until that night. She could still see Madam Pomfrey's expression of sympathy and anger, as well as Professor Dumbledore's grim face. He had no choice but to report it, he'd said, no choice but to let the world know. She'd been angry with him. He'd taken away her right to silence just as He'd taken away her world. Angelina had known then, that it was only the beginning, that more things would be taken from her without her permission, dwindling whatever power she had. She had to wonder if she'd ever had any to begin with.

Her parents still asked her who it was. The Aurors hadn't figured it out and it looked as if they never would. He hadn't come inside her and even if he had it was his word over hers. A fantastic tale he would spin of them being lovers and things getting out of hand. He was a hero, and she just an ordinary witch despite what her bloodline said.

She refused to tell them because she hadn't yet found the words, because some part of her believed that it was some other person, and because she needed to hold on to his name. She needed to hold on to something.

Angelina hated the look of disappointment on her mother's face every time she refused to confide in her. Her mother had given her much more freedom compared to her cousins and other girls of her status. "Do what you must, but keep your dignity," she'd always said. Her dignity being her virginity. Her mother had hopes of marrying her into one of the old families from the Caribbean or Africa, who were rooted in a history that involved more than European wand waving.

The opportunity was lost now. She was damaged. She'd be lucky if she found a suitable husband here in England.

Angelina did not pity herself. Marriage was the last thing she thought about these days. It was always Him, the one she constantly saw but couldn't articulate.

"And isn't this love," Katie had always said whenever George made her angry.

_And isn't this love_, Angelina thought.

**---->----**

Of course they believed it was him. How could they think anything else? He was a Slytherin, inclined to acts of violence and revenge and was without remorse. Who else but a Slytherin would take a Quidditch and house rivalry to such an extreme? Though, that did not explain why he'd brought her to the infirmary, why he stayed with her the whole night. So they came up with an explanation: he'd wanted to see the totality of his work, the astonished expressions of the professors, the arrival of the Aurors who wouldn't be able to prove anything against him.

The truth was there, standing among them, eating with them, ducking his head whenever they mentioned her name. They thought he hurt because she did.

How could they not see his guilt? Maybe they did and ascribed it to something else.

His twin brother died in the war, sacrificing himself for the supposed greater good and the survival of useless Muggles who would burn him at the stake if they knew of his existence.

Fred Weasley. If given the opportunity, Montague would kill him.

He'd do it for Angelina and he'd do it for himself. He shouldn't have to dream of Angelina's bloodstained thighs and the image of lying still and quiet, watching everyone in the infirmary with a sort of distant empty gaze.

Killing Weasley, he knew, would not banish the nightmares or the images that came to him during his waking hours, but it would be something.

So far Weasley had avoided him. Montague suspected the other boy knew that he knew. If this was so, then Weasley feared him. He wondered when the inevitable confrontation would take place, what Montague would do to him. Weasley might've participated in the war but he was still ignorant of dark magic. He'd be no match.

It was the thought of killing Weasley slowly that drove Montague. He ignored the suspicious and angry glares from the students from the other Houses, the looks of veiled disgust from some of the professors. It didn't matter that even if the Slytherin girls outwardly supported him they had stopped speaking to him when not required to. The frequent fights and hexings didn't matter either. His reputation might have been tainted forever, but he'd have his and Angelina's revenge.

Two weeks after the incident and twelve days after Angelina had left school, Professor Snape called Montague into his office. He was seated behind his desk, his expression less severe and more somber than usual. Whatever strength Professor Snape seemed to have had disappeared under the weight of the subject they were about to broach.

"You know why you're here," Snape said. "I would've talked to you sooner, but…"

"I understand," Montague replied.

"Do you? I do not take it lightly when others accuse a member of my house of being a rapist, a most vile wretched creature—"

"But you can't help wondering if it's true." Montague rose from his seat and walked to one of the many bookshelves that lined the office walls. "It's not, I assure you. I didn't rape Angelina."

"But you know who did."

"It isn't for me to tell," Montague replied. "It isn't that hard to figure out when you look."

"Weasley, then," Snape sighed.

Montague said nothing.

"All right, then," Snape said, knowing his student would not consent or deny. "So you will go on with this, allowing them to judge and hurt you."

"I don't care what they think of me, neither if they hurt me. I only care about…" he wondered if he should go further. He had never showed any weakness to his head of house, but they were speaking in the tongue of men not Slytherins.

"Have you heard anything of Angelina?" he asked.

A shadowed expression came to the professor's face. "From what I've been told she does not reply to any of her friends' owls. Professor Dumbledore spoke with her parents not too long ago. They are having trouble getting her to eat. When she does eat she does not hold the food down for long. She also has not been sleeping. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson are consulting with the staff from St. Mungo's to see what kind of help they can offer. If you are concerned, you might consider writing to her."

"You said she doesn't answer owls from her friends."

"You are not her friend."

**---->----**

_Angelina,_

_How are you?_

_-Galen Montague_

* * *

**Note:** Title of this chapter taken from AFI's "Silver and Cold" from their album _Sing The Sorrow._


	3. Butterflies and Hurricanes

**BUTTERFLIES AND HURRICANES**

Montague's owl was ugly. There was no ifs, ands, or buts, about it. The first time Angelina saw Dugan, she was so transfixed by his appearance that she'd forgotten to be annoyed or curious. The owl perched itself on the tree outside her window and glared disapprovingly at her. Obviously, the letter he carried was not from her friends or anyone she knew at Hogwarts. Most of their owls were harmless looking creatures, who always delivered their letters at the front door. She knew no one daring enough to send a letter directly to her.

When she let Dugan in, he circled her room before dropping Montague's letter above her head so she had no choice but to catch it. Circling the room once more and giving her something like a smirk, the owl promptly flew out the window. Angelina was left staring at the envelope, wondering at it. She didn't recognize the handwriting on the front.

She stared at the envelope for a long time, debating whether or not to open it. She had cut herself off from the outside world since she'd returned home. Her room had been her refuge, her world, for the past few weeks. Opening the letter would mean reconnecting with everything she was desperately trying to leave behind. She didn't think she was ready for that, but she didn't throw the letter on the stack that had quickly become a messy pile on her desk.

Her curiosity won out. The words were simple, short and without judgment or apology. She hadn't ever thought of Montague as the type who'd know just exactly what to do or say. Then again, she didn't even know him. She knew him as Montague, the Quidditch player, and Montague the Slytherin and therefore enemy. Most of the time she couldn't even remember his first name. It seemed to her as if he didn't have one. He'd never been a person to her until that night.

He'd stayed with her until she fell asleep, sitting by her bed and gripping his wand tightly. His usually vacant eyes were hard and full of anger. She'd wanted to tell him not to be angry. This thing that had happened to her need not concern him. It was her burden alone.

Looking at the parchment, she realized how wrong she'd been. It wasn't her burden alone. She couldn't imagine what it was like for Montague to see her like that. It couldn't have been easy. It probably wasn't something he was ever going to forget.

Feeling a little sick, Angelina sat on the edge of her bed, unsure of whether or not she wanted to cry or throw up. All these years she'd thought of Montague as beneath her, as just another Slytherin she'd rather see dead than happy. He'd been the one to take care of her during her most vulnerable moment. He hadn't laughed at her or left her in the Tower. Months ago, she couldn't have imagined him doing anything else.

Angelina hated herself for every similar thought she'd ever had about Montague. Couldn't she do anything right?

With so much heavy emotions swirling in her it was a wonder she was able to hold her quill at all. Her reply was hasty, somewhat hysterical, incoherent and full of apologies. She sent it off immediately, not wanting to give herself time to pretend she'd never read Montague's letter

The reply came the next day.

_Angelina,  
__You have nothing to apologize for, and if you do then I need to apologize as well. I am also guilty of not seeing you as anything but a Gryffindor and a moving target on the Quidditch pitch. When one perceives an enemy one also perceives someone who is inhuman. One could never survive or win a war if one were to see the other as anything else. Having said that, I'm unsure of how to proceed. The past few weeks have found me involuntarily speechless. Most people see me as the quiet sort who only speaks when I have something to say. I have many things to say, but I feel as if I don't have the right audience or even the right words. I've wanted to speak to you since that night, but I'm afraid I'll say the wrong thing. I wonder if you could lend me some of your Gryffindor courage so I could say what I need to, even if it's wrong.  
_—_Galen_

Angelina read the letter six times before she reached for her quill and parchment. Reading Montague's letter and replying to it calmed and comforted her, reacquainting her with the idea of peace.

---->----

Angelina's reply to his letter left Montague shaken and uneasy. The letter had been written in a nearly illegible script. It had taken him some time to decipher what she was trying to say, as the letter was so unfocused. Montague had never known Angelina to be unfocused. She was always precise to the point of abruptness. Small talk seemed to bore her and she always forced anyone having a conversation with her to get to the point of the matter. If they didn't she stopped listening to them.

Weasley had done this to her, changed her so irrevocably that she would never be the person she once was, and Montague couldn't understand why.

Weasley and Angelina had been one of the exemplary couples of Gryffindor. They'd been a shining light in the fog of the first post-war year. Both were Purebloods without prejudice, who would help guide others to salvation or some such nonsense.

From all appearances, they'd both appeared happy enough in the relationship. Fred's moodiness was understandable and, at times, excusable, but this was not. It was unforgivable.

Montague still had not forgiven his father for all the years of torture his mother had endured with a smile and an apologetic expression. Previously, he'd thought torture was a strong word, but no more. Every day his father had never failed to insult or belittle his wife. Looking back, Montague wasn't surprised she'd died at such an early age. She'd spent years neglecting herself, focusing everything, her body, her being, her magic on her husband. He'd become stronger and she'd died.

His mother's death had been one of those earth-shattering, life changing moments. He'd realized the world was not so simple. He'd stopped seeing with the eyes of a child and started to look with the eyes of a half-grown man.

His mother's death was what had prevented him from being sorted into any of the other Houses. He could not see the world in terms of black and white, the courageous and the cowards, like the Gryffindors. He couldn't see through rose-coloured lenses like the Hufflepuffs, nor could he see the world with practical eyes like the Ravenclaws. Slytherins saw the word in shades of grey and slanted angles to be exploited at every opportunity.

Montague had never regretted his sorting no matter how it had come about. Despite what others thought, Slytherin was a respectable House. He'd always felt safe in the dungeons, among others who were like him.

But soon he would have to leave. School was ending in a few months and he'd have to find safety elsewhere. There was a large, scary world outside Hogwarts where his sorting would only be one of many things that defined him. Beyond the British shores there was an even larger world where the idea of being sorted was as foreign as he was.

Angelina was part of that world now. Whatever apprehension he'd felt about leaving school was dissipating with that knowledge. He'd always had a grudging respect for Angelina, but he'd never wanted to get to know her in any capacity, until now. She was more than what he'd always believed. How much more was something he wanted to discover, right along with the world that was beyond the dungeons.

**

* * *

****Notes**

Title taken from Muse's "Butterflies and Hurricanes" from their album _Absolution._

Evilevergreen, you got it one. I chose Montague's name because I liked the meaning. I wouldn't say that he heals Angelina, she does that herself with a bit of help. Montague is more a catalyst for her healing.

Thanks for reading, everyone, and thanks for the reviews.


	4. Death of Seasons

**DEATH OF SEASONS**

_Dear You,  
I've decided I can't say or write your name because if I do it sets me into a fit of giggles. I think it's because of the potion the mediwizard from St. Mungo's prescribed for me. It's a watered down version of the Existaz potion. A few minutes after I take it, I feel like I did when I flew, like I'm up in the sky and nothing can touch me. Everything goes away. And then I come down and it's like I'm falling. I feel worse than I did before I took the potion. Everything just hurts. What's worse is that I begin to see things. One night I woke up imagining that He was at my bedside. I couldn't scream so I threw up._

_I haven't told my parents any of this, but I think they're starting to suspect. I don't want to burden them any more than I have. I hear them talking. Everything's ruined. Mother is thinking of sending for a healer from the islands. She's hesitant, though. If the new healer can't help then there might not be any hope._

_On a happier note, you may be proud to know that I actually went outside yesterday. I went off the estate and went into town. It was strange. It felt like everyone was looking at me and I think they were. They all knew. They looked at me with pity that I don't want. I didn't stay very long._

_Mother wanted to talk after I got back, but I couldn't. The things that I should say to her I say to you. Why is that? Is it because you know? If that's it then I wish she could too. But how could she not? He was all I wrote about since fourth year. Sometimes, for some stupid reason, I used to think about marrying him. _

_When I first entered Hogwarts and saw the red and gold Gryffindor banner with the proud lion roaring, paws out, ready to defend itself, I knew exactly which House I wanted to be in. The banner reminded me of the home my parents had left, of strength, warm fires, and women singing into the darkness. Strange, but He reminded me of that in some ways. _

_For the last six and a half years Gryffindor was my second home. He's destroyed it for me and I can't go back. I think of how much I got caught up in the idea of Gryffindor, of how it defined me. Learning that there's more to me than red and gold…that's where part of the sickness is coming from, and knowing that isn't helping. _

_I feel…I'm losing, Galen. I need…I don't know. I need this to end.  
-Angelina_

_---- ---- _

_Angelina,  
I was very distressed by your last letter. I didn't like the note it ended on. Johnson, if you do anything to yourself let it be known that I will never forgive you. Others might understand your need to have it all done with, but I will not. It would be making it too easy for him. He would be alive. No matter what anyone says, being alive is always the greatest thing. The present may be difficult but there is always the future, the possibility for change. Death does not bring resolve. It is the end of resolve. I believe that what occurs in life should be rectified in life. I will not wait until after my death to forgive or see to those who deserve my revenge. Death for me is a time to leave life and everything concerned with it behind. I have no interest in forcing my opinion on others, but I think you would do well to think as I do, at least for now.  
-Galen_

"What's that you got there?" Calix Warrington asked, trying to sneak a look at the parchment Montague had just signed.

"None of your business," Montague replied, folding his letter.

Suspecting that his reply would be immediate, Angelina's horned owl, Mercury, had perched on a windowsill in the Great Hall instead of going to the Owlery. Montague signaled it over, attached the letter to his leg and gave him a few bits of toast before sending him off.

"Whose owl is that?" Calix asked. "It only started delivering to you recently."

"It's my lover. I've been carrying on a grand affair with a fair goblin maid and she demands to hear from me quite often," Montague replied.

"Most Goblins can't read English," Calix said without missing a beat.

"Okay, then it's none of your business."

Calix was his best friend, but Montague didn't want to talk to him about Angelina. He did not want to involve Calix in this mess of hurt, violence and eventual revenge. That night it had been him and Angelina and later on Madam Pomfrey and the professors. Calix and everyone else had heard the story, but hadn't experienced it. Talking to him or anyone else would do nothing but feed the Hogwarts grapevine and help to make others feel included. Montague did not want them to feel included. What was between him and Angelina was their own, something he did not want to share.

"Does it have to do with—"

Montague cut his friend off with a glare. Calix raised his brow slightly but spoke no further.

When he did speak again, he nudged Montague with his elbow. "They're looking at you again. Bloody Gryffindors."

Montague rolled his eyes. Being stared at by the Gryffindors had become a part of his morning ritual. The harshest glares would come from Spinnet, Bell, and Jordan. They were Angelina's closest friends. They, as well as Weasley, had become stand-ins for her, receiving pitying glances and offers of comfort.

At first Montague had ignored them, but they'd irritated him so much with their never ceasing self-righteousness that he'd begun to glare back. If they thought he'd been ignoring them out of guilt they were now sure that it was not so. He'd heard they'd received his glares as confession, as a sign that he was as evil as they believed him to be. He couldn't win so he chose not to care about the game.

How stupid they would feel when the truth was known—and it would be known. Montague would make sure of it. What he lacked in guilt they would feel ten fold. Every day gone was a day closer to their realization. Knowing that gave him the strength to hold their gazes and to scorn at their stupidity and blindness.

Today he'd expected the same malevolent looks but was only met with confused and curious expressions. Spinnet was whispering something in Bell's ear. Bell nodded and looked away, followed by Jordan.

Montague wanted to growl in frustration. Once again, the Gryffindors were changing the rules without consulting anyone.

--- ----

They cornered him in the library after dinner in the small section devoted to non-British magic. Jordan was not with them. Montague had seen him go off with Weasley, who looked "a little suicidal" according to a fifth year Hufflepuff. Montague hoped Weasley wouldn't jump off Gryffindor Tower anytime soon. Not before he had a chance to push him off it.

Spinnet and Bell were looking at him in the way that said they expected him to speak first. Under their façade of Gryffindor courage Montague could sense their discomfort and fear.

He ignored them for a few moments, staring intently at the old book in his hands. Spinnet let out a sigh of frustration. Bell narrowed her eyes at him.

Deciding he'd annoyed them enough, Montague snapped the book shut and gave them his best smile. "Is there something I can help you ladies with?"

Bell clenched her jaws; her fingers were curled into a fist. Montague glanced at her hand, raised his brow and gave a little snort. He moved away from them, heading towards the desk where he'd left his things. Spinnet quickly stepped in front of him.

"Are you trying to start a fight?" he asked in a low voice, sorting out which hex would best suit the girl.

"No," she replied. "We just want to ask you something."

"Ask me something?" he echoed. What could they want to know? They thought they knew everything already.

Bell, who was now standing beside Spinnet, nodded. "We were just wondering why Angelina's been sending you letters."

"What would make you think she's been doing that?"

Spinnet rolled her eyes. "We're not stupid. We've seen her owl. Mercury's here almost every other day."

"And the fact that she hasn't been sending you howlers says something."

"Oh, really," Montague gave a short laugh. "And what could that be?"

The girls looked at each other, communicating through subtle shifts of expression.

"We don't know yet," Bell replied. "Why don't you tell us?"

It was Montague's turn to clench his jaws and curl his fingers into fists. "I don't have to tell you anything. If you want to know what Angelina has to say to me then ask her—"

"She's hasn't been responding to any of our owls."

He grinned maliciously. "Well, that's yours to deal with. I don't owe you anything and I certainly wouldn't say a thing after the last few weeks."

"Did you do it, then?" Bell asked, looking him in the eye.

"What do you think?" he asked, returning the gaze.

She didn't answer. He saw uncertainty in her eyes. She wanted to believe it was him. She wanted it all to be wrapped up in a neat little package so as not to complicate things. Gryffindors and their simplicity. When would they learn that the world was not so easy, that the space between dark and the light was where they all were?

* * *

**A/N:** Title for this chapter taken from AFI's "Death of Seasons" from their album _Sing the Sorrow_. 


	5. Release

**RELEASE**

Angelina had been taught that time was irrelevant. Before Hogwarts her mother, father, aunts, uncles, and cousins, had told her that time and people were like the wind and a kite. Sometimes people were the kite, who were pushed along by the flow of time and sometimes people were the wind, who decided where time would go or where it would go back. Her mother had laughed one evening, saying: "Dem no see time like we," slipping into her home tongue.

Angelina was proof of the theory. At times she would get a feeling like déjà vu but not quite. Déjà vu was _feeling_ as if you'd been somewhere before while not believing so, Angelina always _knew_ she'd been there before. At times her mind would reach around a corner and see what was up ahead. It was how she'd known that Marcus Flint was looking for someone to hex and had decided to take another path to Gryffindor Tower.

Sitting in her bedroom after the new healer had left, Angelina could feel herself slipping backwards. She'd felt the pull many times before but had refused to let it take her. She'd always been told never to resist because she'd always find herself back in the present, and, most of all, the force behind time would always take her where she needed to be.

She'd resisted because she knew the destination. She didn't want to go back to that place, back to Him. But now, after the countless of hours of talking, of healing, she thought she could do it, and if she couldn't she knew one day she would be able to.

>

She went to the Tower with him because he'd asked. At this point, she would've done anything he'd asked. The war had come and gone last year and during what had come to be known as The Attack on Diagon Alley George had been killed. She never once said he'd get over the loss. She knew he wouldn't. Instead, she let him borrow her notes, revised his essays (she'd completely rewritten them) and went up to the Astronomy Tower whenever he got the inclination. He needed her and she was all too happy to be needed.

That night they watched the stars like they always did before they began to kiss. Like every night since their relationship had become so intense, she began to think of the path that had been chosen for her. In a few months she'd leave Hogwarts and return home to receive offers of courtship. After she decided on a husband there would a wedding. It would be huge affair, maybe in Jamaica or Barbados. She'd settle into the life of a society wife, only recalling her time at Hogwarts as if it were a faint dream.

Did she want that? Her life could be different. She could marry Fred, if he wanted her. If he did, it would mean a smaller home, less money, and children with skin the colour of honey and auburn hair that was a fiery shade of red in the sun.

It was that life she wanted when she allowed him to undo the buttons of her shirt and pull down her knickers. His hands were on her hips and he was about to thrust when she heard the distant chime of a clock. Her mother's words came to her mind, dousing her like ice water. She shuddered just as he pushed forward.

She was still for a moment, unbelieving. When the moment passed she opened her mouth to speak but Fred kissed her, pushing the words back. Angelina's body became rigid as she tried to push him off her. Fred grasped her arms so tight she reacted by biting his tongue. He broke the kiss and raised himself slightly, looking down at her. His eyes were dark, completely void of blue, making him seem like another person.

"Fred, I don't want to do this," she said. "I'm sorry, but—"

"Don't worry," he said, cutting her off. "It's okay."

He didn't release her arms. Instead his grip tightened as he kissed her again thrusting once more, this time harder. She felt something falling away from her. It was like being caught in an infinite moment of descent.

When it was over the air had changed and she couldn't breathe. Her tears were her words and when he finally pulled out he wiped them away.

"I'm sorry, Angie, I…" He hadn't finished, leaving her with unanswered questions and all the responsibility.

>

Angelina's eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness of her room. She dared not move because even though her mind was in the present parts of her body were still in the past. She could feel a faint throbbing between her legs. She sighed, not wanting to cry but not knowing what else to do. She felt like screaming but couldn't, so she chose to whisper instead.

->-

The opportunity presented itself and he took it.

Weasley was alone in the hall with his back turned, studying a portrait of Godric Gryffindor. A few quick strides and Montague had him arm around Weasley's neck, his wand pointed at his temple.

"Weasley, you really are an idiot. Wandering the halls at night? You must've wanted me to find you."

"Maybe I did," he replied flatly.

Montague tightened his hold, while pushing the other boy forward. "We're going to talk, you and I."

It was tricky, but Montague managed to steer both of them towards the stairs and up to the Astronomy Tower. When Weasley had realized where they were going, he'd tried to resist. Montague had gripped his neck even tighter and dug his wand into Weasley's head.

Once they were inside the tower, Montague pushed him to the ground and locked the door with a spell. Weasley wasn't leaving unless Montague wanted him to.

"What do you want?" Weasley asked, standing to meet Montague's gaze.

"I want you dead," he replied stoically, suppressing the myriad of emotions that had flared up at the sight of the other boy. "I want to see you eviscerated and your body left for whatever the hell's in the Forbidden Forest. It's nothing less than you deserve."

"I don't disagree," he said in a small voice.

"You don't?" Montague asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "Is that why you haven't you told anyone? Is that why you've let me take the blame?"

Weasley moved away from him. "You don't understand what happened that night."

"There's nothing to understand. You raped her, you left her, and you haven't said anything to anyone. You're a bloody coward, Weasley." Montague sneered, laughing. "They should've put you in Hufflepuff. All these years, you've gone around thinking you were so much better than everyone else. You thought it was only people from my House who were capable of doing what you did. It hurts to know that isn't true, doesn't it?"

"Shut it, Montague," Weasley said tightly.

"You have no idea what you've done to her," he said quietly. "You weren't in the infirmary with her, you didn't see." Realizing his emotions were coming to the fore, Montague turned away. "And you want to know what's so fucked up about this? You _had_ her. She would've done anything for you. You were going to get married and repopulate the wizarding world with a million redheaded children."

Weasley snorted bitterly. "You don't know anything, Montague. Angelina would've never married me." Montague turned back to him, his confusion evident. It was Weasley's turn to sneer. "You think you Slytherins are the only ones obsessed with bloodlines. You can trace your history back to Merlin's time. She can do it back to tribes that existed before all the supposed great civilizations. Her parents would've never let her marry me. My family has no money. I'm nobody except another Englishman who knows nothing except what's going on in his own garden."

"So that's why you did it, then? To hold on to her?"

"I don't know. I guess so. It just happened, and…" Weasley sighed, running his hand through his hair. He looked down at the floor. "I just didn't want to lose her." His voice was barely above a whisper.

Montague shook his head, suppressing the urge to hit Weasley. It was an answer, but he still didn't understand, still couldn't fathom Weasley's actions. No amount of words or explanations would ever be good enough for him.

"I don't care why you did it anymore. It happened and there's no going back. I'm going to give you a choice. I'm giving you until tomorrow to go to Dumbledore. If you don't, I'll kill you."

"You—"

"I would," Montague cut him off, raising his wand. One wrong move, one wrong word out of Weasley's mouth and he'd say the words. _Avada Kedavra_. He probably should've done that instead of what he was doing now. This was certainly not what he'd had in mind when he'd grabbed Weasley.

"Why? Why are you giving me a choice?"

Weasley was trying his patience. Despite his annoyance, Montague answered the question. "Angelina. She can't even say your name aloud. She won't be able to tell anyone for a long time and if one day she actually does, chances are no one would believe her. If you tell them she won't have to go through her life lying to her friends and questioning if they would leave her if they knew the truth. You've ballsed up her life enough as it is, Weasley."

He averted his eyes from Montague. "You care about her," he murmured.

"She makes it surprisingly hard not to. That's why it would so easy and pleasurable for me to kill you. You have until breakfast." Giving Weasley a final glare, Montague left the tower.

Walking back to the dungeons, Montague couldn't suppress the feeling that he'd just done something monumentally wrong. He hadn't intended to kill Weasley, but he hadn't intended to show him mercy either. The anger he'd felt all these weeks had been pushed aside for the rationality he'd always privileged above everything else.

In terms of strategy, giving Weasley the alternative that he would surely take was correct. Angelina would be better off if Weasley confessed. But he would not be. His anger would still be there, unable to be satisfied. Left unchecked it would twist itself into something ugly. Who would he be after it spread though him like a cancer? His father?

Montague shook his head, hoping to banish his thoughts. He was not his father and he never would become him. He'd kill himself first before he let that happen.

* * *

**A/N:** Title taken from Afro-Celt Sound System "Release" from their album of the same name. 


	6. Grab Thy Hand

**Grab Thy Hand**

Dusk was settling, turning the sky into a swirl of purple, red and orange. The shadows were elongating in the Johnson's garden, strangely, making it even more beautiful.

Behind him, Montague could hear the laughter and conversation in the Johnson's home. It had been Angelina's mother's idea to throw her daughter a party. A sort of "welcome back to the world" get-together.

Three months had gone by since Weasley had gone to Dumbledore. If Angelina had received some closure by now, Montague had not. Whatever anger he'd felt months earlier paled in comparison to the raw emotion burning in his chest, threatening to consume him.

Weasley had not been sent to Azkaban. He'd been given two years in St. Mungo's new psychiatry ward. All because he'd cried in front of the Wizengamot while telling them about his dead brother and fallen friends.

The sentencing had left Montague dumbfounded. Angelina had not looked so surprised.

"It's not fair," he'd said when they were outside the Ministry.

She smiled, amused. A Slytherin talking about fairness! "Life isn't fair, Galen," she'd said quietly and seriously. "It just isn't."

He'd known that all his life, but this once he'd wished it wasn't so.

A rustle from a nearby rosebush brought Montague out of his thoughts. Angelina was not far away. She wore a white dress and was holding a dozen or so blood red roses.

Montague forgot to breathe. He'd remember this moment for as long as he lived. The moment when he'd felt something warm settle beside the anger, calming it and molding it into something new.

->-

This was no reintroduction to the world, Angelina had decided when she'd left the house. This was an introduction to a new world that resembled the old. Everything had changed. She could see it in the way her friends looked at her, with a mix of emotions she couldn't quite comprehend, emotions that distanced her from them. It was the same for them, she knew. She had changed as well, and her eyes betrayed the change, expanding the distance.

She cursed Fred for doing this to her. She could feel it now, the anger she'd been too afraid, too ashamed of feeling. She'd thought if she could bury it the world would remain unchanged. She'd visited the past and saw there was no truth in that. Truth was in an uncertain future, sleepless nights and hours of wondering "What if?".

Then there was Galen. Truth was in him. He comforted her.

He stood at the edge of the garden, staring at her with such intensity that she was momentarily self-conscious. She felt her face grow hot.

Was it too soon for this kind of feeling?

Angelina held her breath. She watched as Montague regained himself a little and extended his hand. She was unsure but she took it.

Present became future and she saw it all for a moment. She forgot most of it when she came back to herself, but she'd seen enough. She tightened her grasp around Montague's fingers.

**End**.

* * *

**A/N:** Title taken from Chevelle's "Grab Thy Hand" from their _Wonder What's Next_ album. 

That's it folks. Thanks for the all comments and support. I'm eternally grateful.


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